The young man remained stoic, marching forward with an air of frigid indifference.
They were all destined for disappointment, for Seraph spared them not a single glance. He strode into the grand emporium of a major guild, where two ranks of attendants stood at the threshold, bowing in unison to welcome his arrival.
It was not that the street-hawkers offered too little; some had bellowed sums far exceeding the standard tier of the market. However, the young magis prioritized reputability over a mountain of coin. He sought only to liquidate the remains and ensure no lingering complications would follow. For him, the integrity of the transaction was paramount.
Once inside, Seraph was heralded as a guest of distinction. He was ushered into a luxurious private lounge, and the moment he claimed his seat upon the sofa, a selection of fine teas and delicacies was laid before him. Handmaidens attended to his every need as if he were a highborn prince; the hospitality of the guild was nothing short of professional.
Within moments, the waitresses retreated, replaced by a head merchant who took the seat across from him.
"I wonder, my lord…" Branga began, trying to break the silence.
"Seraph. Magis of Sanctus," the young man cut him off with surgical precision.
"Oh! Lord Seraph himself! Your reputation precedes you, my lord. It's a true honor to have you grace our establishment—" Branga's flattery flowed like oil.
"Cut the flattery, Branga. To the point," Seraph said, his words hitting with rapid-fire haste. "I'm here to offload these Mirkcaps. What's your top offer for the lot?"
"Regarding that matter…"
"Stop. Give me your final number now," Seraph commanded with grim gravity. "I loathe haggling. Don't waste my time with polite evasions."
"Ah! I relish doing business with someone so astute!" Branga chuckled, a merchant's grin etched onto his face. "To be forthright—these three carcasses and the cloaks are in pristine condition. I'm marvelling at how you dispatched them so cleanly. I can offer you two gold coins per head. It's slightly below market, I'll admit, but it's the highest you'll find in any shop."
"Eight gold coins for the three. Take it or leave it," Seraph countered.
Though he claimed to despise negotiation, he knew traders always kept a hidden margin buried beneath their flowery rhetoric.
"Done!" Branga agreed with startling speed.
"And these three poisoned daggers?" Seraph asked.
[Thud! Thud! Thud!]
Without warning, the venom-green blades streaked through the air and slammed into the wooden table. They buried themselves to the hilt as if the solid timber were nothing more than soft curd.
The opulent table was a thick slab of intricately carved timber—a piece that cost a princely sum—yet the blades bit into the grain as if meeting no resistance at all.
"Vicious little things, aren't they?" Branga remarked, feigning a sigh. "Their quality is commendable, but the hilts are so short. It'll be a struggle to find a buyer. I can offer ten silver coins a piece."
It was a blatant fabrication. Daggers might not be the primary armament in Arkflame, but they were an indispensable backup for any serious warrior. To say they were hard to sell was a joke, especially with the Assassin's Guild always lurking for fresh steel.
Branga was right about the length—they were demonic steel, forged for Mirkcap hands—but that didn't make them useless as throwing knives or concealed blades.
"Don't take me for a fool, Branga. I know the market," Seraph countered, his voice heavy with pressure. "One gold coin for the three. A flat rate."
"Done! I accept," Branga replied, his grin widening further.
"I have one final condition..." Seraph said, reaching into his cloak. He produced a cluster of raw gold nuggets, setting them on the marred table. "I'll sell you the lot, provided you take these nuggets for a flat thirty gold."
It was a take-it-or-leave-it offer. No room for haggling.
"Oh! You were holding out on me!" Branga exclaimed.
His eyes gleamed, his pupils practically turning into magnifying lenses. The rotund merchant snatched up the gold, scrutinizing it with a loupe without a shred of modesty. He rotated the nuggets, inspecting every facet to verify their weight and purity.
After a tense silence, the rotund merchant broke into a broad, greasy grin and looked up.
"Agreed! I'll take a hit on this one just to secure our long-term rapport," Branga proposed, his grip on the gold nuggets never wavering. "The total for the lot comes to thirty-nine gold coins. Do we have a deal?"
"Deal," Seraph replied.
"Wonderful! It's always a pleasure to do business with a professional," Branga beamed, extending his hand.
With the negotiations concluded, they exchanged a firm handshake, finalizing a transaction that stood equitable for both parties.
Once the bartering ceased, the process of exchange proceeded with clinical efficiency. Before long, Seraph exited the establishment, clutching a new coin pouch—a tangible testament to his bountiful harvest this morning.
In truth, the purchase rank for Mirkcaps rarely ascended this high; however, the pristine state of the demonic carcasses had commanded a premium. Both Seraph and Branga found satisfaction in the mutual benefit of the trade.
Seraph understood well that a major house could refine those goods to amplify their value manifold; yet, he harbored no desire to haggle further.
While such shops reaped high profits, it was a result of their specialized expertise in the echelon of trade—a mastery that was not the affinity of a magis. For him to struggle in the black markets with demonic remnants would only risk damaging the goods or falling prey to deception, squandering precious time. At times, it was far superior to delegate to those with the proper skill sets while he pursued his own path, hunting the next demonic threat.
(10 Lead coins = 1 Bronze coin, 100 Bronze coins = 1 Silver coin, 100 Silver coins = 1 Gold coin, 100 Gold coins = 1 Platinum coin)
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
After offloading his loot, Seraph headed straight for the mission hall. He'd left Balyon at daybreak, and despite the ambush in the woods, he'd barely lost any time. The sun hadn't even hit its zenith when he arrived.
As he pushed through the heavy doors, he found Sadir at the counter. The official was leaning on his hand, his face a mask of pure irritation. Everything about him screamed that he was having a hell of a bad day.
"Sadir. I'm here to turn in my mission," Seraph said, stepping up to the desk.
"Give it a rest! I don't have time for your nonsense!" Sadir barked without even looking up, his voice dripping with venom.
Seraph didn't flinch. He just watched the man with a chilling, detached composure.
"I've finished the subjugation at Desden," he said, his voice flat.
"Wait... Seraph?" Sadir finally looked up, as if only just realizing who he was talking to.
"In the flesh. I'm back from Desden Cave. Here's the scroll. Verify it," Seraph commanded, sliding the parchment across the counter.
Sadir stared at the scroll, then at Seraph, his face a picture of pure disbelief—as if the young man were talking in tongues.
"You? Finished? Already?" Sadir stammered. "Desden is no walk in the park. The task force estimated it would take a magis a week, maybe a month, to clear out the undead and the Hyghul. How the hell did you wrap this up so fast—and without a single scratch on you?"